War Wounds
by poisonouschicken
Summary: Contractverse. A version of House's recovery in the prison hospital.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: House doesn't belong to me, just borrowing the dude.**

**If you're nice you will review. *shifty eyes***

* * *

Doctor Whitley stood by his patient's bed, medical chart in his hand.

A decade working in a prison hospital has yielded many gruesome cases, including one inmate whose carotid artery was severed by the crossbow bolt of an irate neighbour, fashioned from rolled up paper and a piece of the plastic lunch tray.

But through all the years of treating the numerous stab wounds, fractures, contusions, infections, and anything else that have been results of prisoner interactions, none were as horrific as the man who lay in front of him now.

Gregory House.

You don't enter the medical field without hearing his name in hushed whispers bandied about in medical conventions, whether out of awe or fear, mingled with the occasional 'ass' or 'jerk'.

_Doctor_ Gregory House.

The eerie silence of the hospital room is broken when House gasps and draws a laboured breath, and a whimper escapes as he exhaled. The monitors bleep.

_There's nothing fearsome about him now._

Whitley sets the file down, removes the stethoscope from around his neck and uses it to auscultate his patient's lungs. Crackling and gurgling greet his ears. Whitley reaches over and adjusts House's oxygen intake. He glances at the monitors. Satisfied, he notes it in the chart, before beginning the examination. He lifts the blankets that envelop the fallen diagnostician.

A myriad of broken and dislocated bones - some old and poorly fused, others new and splinted - all of them painful and leading to new waves of complications.

The canvas of burns on House's body adds itself to the chorus of suffering. Whitley's trained eyes and experience with previous patients immediately make out their causes, from the brand on the inside of House's arm – 5,2 – to the scarred over back, a result of boiling liquids being mercilessly poured over skin, and the gnarled fingers victims to the common iron. The more severe burns have required skin grafts. Whitley hopes House's body has time to overcome the rest.

He turns his attention to House's sutures and lacerations, ensuring they are dry and properly washed. The swelling has gone down on the one on his arm, extending from the elbow and running along the ulna. The one on his chest is still draining. House's wrists, scarred and damaged by different restraints over the years, have become gangrenous and needed the surgical debridement of the dead tissue.

Whitley cannot decide if his faith in humanity has been all but completely destroyed by the injustice House has _suffered_, or whether it had been restored by all the injustice this man has _endured_.

The patient shivers from the loss of the sheets that covered his body, and the physician dutifully replaces them, ensuring they do not snag against the tubes that snake out from his body nor cover any of the weeping wounds. House slumbers on, sedated, weak and blissfully oblivious.

When House first arrived at the infirmary, a battle to keep him stable had ensued between the medical staff and the hypothermia that consumed his body. The hypothermia soon gave way to pneumonia and a raging fever, hence the need for the oxygen mask obscuring most of his face.

Doctor Whitley checks the catheter collection bag, takes another look at the monitors bleeping about his patient's head, notes a few more things in the medical chart, and quietly leaves the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's chapter 2, thanks to everyone who was kind enough to review or favourite or place this story on your alerts. I am forever indebted to you.**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter, and pray you forget any mistakes (medical or grammatical).**

**Once again, reviews help my creative chi.**

* * *

Bubbles escape his nose and mouth. A firm grip around his neck holds him underwater. His ears fill with the crashing of liquid and what might have been muffled laughter from above. He flails wildly on instinct, but his stronger captors have him pinned. His vision starts to dim and colour, and he chokes when he opens his mouth to inhale in vain.

_He can't breathe._

_

* * *

_House jerks awake in his bed, eyes wide with fright. His panic only further intensified by the cacophony of wails from the hospital monitors, loud and unyielding, and the soft restraints holding his limbs to the bed. Small grunts and whimpers escape as he takes rapid, shallow gusts of air, and something was on his face and _he can't move or think_ _andtheairwasnotenoughandhecan'tbreatheand_ohGOD_theyweregonnahurthim_

_

* * *

_The nurse Geraldine Morrigan had just begun her rounds when a chilling cry from the room at the end of the corridor had her running toward it as quickly as someone of her age could manage. She entered the ICU room only to find the patient in a full-blown panic attack, and the monitors showing an alarming update of his status. She tamped down her initial instincts to sedate him with a quick dose of ativan - the patient was already on a cocktail of drugs - and made her way quickly to the distressed man's bedside, voice crooning low in an attempt to soothe.

The scars that are etched across his face and his withered, quaking frame and deformed hands identified him as House, the prisoner from solitary, main topic of conversation for the hospital staff. He used to be a doctor, they said.

"Dr House, it's all right now, nothing can hurt you, you're in the hospital, and it's all right…"

Morrigan kept up the mantra to the terrified man in front of her, as she gently ran a hand through his cropped hair, – his unkempt locks had been shorn off for they had become matted and infested with parasites – and placed the other hand carefully on his left forearm, mindful of the decoration of cuts and bruises, and her thumb began to caress a bony spot above his bandaged wrist, hoping her gestures of comfort will reach through the haze of fear.

She reached up and silenced the blaring monitors, and briefly considered removing the restraints that bound him, but decided in his state of panic, being released would only increase the chances of him hurting himself or knocking one of the tubes or wires loose.

* * *

House shut his eyes tightly, awaiting the blows that would soon rain upon his shivering, battered frame, as he lay cold, curled and dripping on the cold floor. He braced himself as his tormentors fell silent; presumably to raise their fists, or whatever weapon they had on their persons. He tensed and curled tighter around himself even as his aching joints and cuts screamed in protest to the change in position.

The blow never came.

* * *

Instead, a soft, gentle, almost musical voice is heard – a _woman's _– and the unfamiliarity jolted his thoughts out from the vortex they were caught in. He became aware of a hand on his arm and another brushing across his scalp, both with soft, smooth skin instead of the calloused, rough hands of the prison wardens. Confused, he opened his eyes.

Nurse Morrigan watched as House's struggle slowly ceased as the minutes ticked by, her hands never stopping their ministrations and her voice never stopped repeating the words of comfort.

She watched as he finally opened his eyes – a startling, piercing blue – his confused gaze taking in his surroundings, and was relieved when his hitching gasps started to smooth over as he attempted to focus on her. She brushed a thumb under his eyelids and across his cheeks, wiping away the moisture there.

"It's okay now, you're in the hospital, there's nothing to worry about, take deep breaths…"

Morrigan welcomed House back with what she hoped was a kindly smile, holding a straw and cup of juice to his lips - to replace lost nutrition. She flicked a worried glance at the hospital monitor – oxygen saturation was at the lower nineties, thanks to the pneumonia and the recent panic attack - and after setting the cup down, promptly reached over to adjust his oxygen flow. With that done, she returned her attention to her patient.

"That's better, huh? I need you to take deep breaths, come on now, in…out…in…"

House did his best to follow her pace as she lifted his gown and placed a stethoscope on his chest – after warming it – but still found himself panting and taking noisy gulps of air and can't seem to suppress the coughs that wracked his shuddering body. He winced and attempted to curl himself up and brace his chest, but the leather straps still holding his limbs made it unsuccessful.

The nurse, sensing the danger of another panic-attack, quickly reached over and released his arms and legs, yet gently but firmly held onto his forearms as he weakly drew his knees up, so he doesn't displace the IVs taped there.

"Calm down now, you're alright..."

Once she was certain House was no longer in any danger to himself – he certainly wasn't able to hurt _her_ in this state – she gently drew his fevered form toward her as she sat down on the bed and rested his head on her shoulder. She felt him tense up immediately.

"Just relax. We'll see if we can't do anything to make it easier for you."

Morrigan began to gently palpate his back - careful of the unhealed wounds there – in an attempt to loosen the sputum in his lungs, and hopefully ease his breathing. She could feel his tremors as he leaned on her, and the knobby protuberances that indicate past rib fractures through the thin material of his gown. While she did her best not to think about how she was able to count every rib and separate vertebra that stuck out painfully against his skin, Morrigan couldn't fully suppress the wave of sympathy that crashed over her as she held the pitiful creature. His struggle to put much-needed air in his lungs was loud in her ears, and she could hear the hollow gurgling hiss of his exhalations to the strangled rasp when he inhaled. To put him at ease, she spoke softly to him, a stream of constant chatter to show she meant no harm.

"Must have been one hell of a nightmare, Gregory. Startled you quite badly. Mind you, gave me quite a scare too. Sorry about the straps, we weren't sure how you would react. Oh, I haven't quite introduced myself, my name's Geraldine Morrigan, some people just call me Morrie."

The nurse felt her ward slowly relax against her, and she smiled softly.

"You're a quiet fellow. You'll forgive an old lady for talking too much. My son doesn't come by too often. He's slightly younger than you I should think, ignoring his filial duties in favour of chasing after some young strumpet."

This earned her a soft '_chuff'_ of amusement from House, which tapered off into a slight cough. Morrigan resumed her tapping, and started her narration again.

House felt himself feeling almost fond of the nurse, and was grateful for the physical contact. He wasn't entirely sure the whole situation was real, – he'd been caught hallucinating before; when the pain became so unbearable his mind found a way to escape – and it seeing as he was not in the best shape when the agents told him Thompson was dead, he refused to fall into that cruel trap of false hope again.

Still, Morrigan's kindness - the first instance after many long agonizing years - may be the one thing keeping whatever's left of his sanity from collapsing, and he allowed himself to enjoy the forbidden affection _while he still can_. He doubted a slender woman in her 60s was an aggressor anyway. Besides, if he tries his best to stay quiet, the people _outside_ won't be made aware of his thoughts.

The nurse reached for a nearby emesis basin as House started coughing wetly, and removed his oxygen mask, using an arm to brace his chest as he hacked up the foul fluid; a quick glance revealed slight traces of blood present. When he was finished she replaced the mask, and settled him back down on the elevated headrest. He was already dozing as she fiddled with his blankets, and was sound asleep when she had finished replacing the IV and catheter bags.

Nurse Morrigan fetched a basin of lukewarm water and a clean washcloth, and returned to House, tenderly running the washcloth across his skin. His fever was still holding up around 102 - and though it was a marked improvement from his initial temperature of 105 – it was still one more problem his convalescing body does not need. Her task completed, she dried him and fitted him in a new hospital gown.

She proceeded to change his bandages and check on his injuries, drying any excess fluid or pus, and making sure his stitches were healing nicely. She tamped down on the sudden rush of anger and revulsion as she examined the stitches around his more delicate regions - a product of repeated violations. Morrigan had heard of the abuse he suffered through – heck, she was part of the team that treated him when he first arrived – but when faced one-on-one with the evidence laid so plainly in front of her, she found herself having to contend with a potent mix of rage and overwhelming pity at the injustice.

If her own emotions were in this much turmoil, she did not want to think about how he must feel – must have _felt_.

Before she left Morrigan fluffed up his pillows and tucked in his blankets, allowing herself one last motherly gesture.

House twitched in his slumber, no longer aware of her presence.

Geraldine Morrigan really hoped he would get better soon. If his O2 sats got any worse they would have to put him back on the ventilator. As she gathered up her things and made her exit through the doors, she offered a silent farewell.

_Sleep well son._


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter borrows characters from other Contractverse fics, Joe Roberts from Harpomarx's A Gentle Knock at the Door and Troopercam's Lifeline. Jones was mentioned briefly in the original Contract by DIYSheep, but not much is mentioned so I decided to weave her in somehow.**

**Please forgive the mistakes in here, not just medical or grammatical anymore, but if the plot appears inconsistent with other children in Contract-land. I had to tweak some information to fit my version, but tried to gel my story in, so you may catch some references to other fics. (Priority's Exigencies also included).**

**Many thanks to Harpomarx for letting me borrow Joseph, and to you for reading and reviewing.**

**I promise more major characters will show up in the subsequent chapters.  
**

* * *

One thinks a member of the law enforcement community would have been impossible to intimidate. After all encounters with drug lords, murderers, thieves, psychopaths and all manner of unsavoury characters are all in a day's work. Especially if you happen to be a strapping six-foot-four FBI veteran like Joseph Roberts.

Yet the giant fellow found himself feeling like a misbehaving schoolboy as he stood nervously in front of an irate elderly nurse who must have been half his size at best. It would have been a comical sight if the situation hadn't been so serious. Roberts' discreet glance at his partner – FBI detective Marion Jones – who stood next to him revealed that as shell-shocked as she may be from the conversation that had taken place before, Jones was also penitent in the wrath of nurse Geraldine Morrigan.

"I realise you have a job to do, but so do we, and it's hard enough without your interference, thank you very much. He's been through quite enough!"

Jones had been brave enough to pipe out a question, effectively cutting off Morrigan's tirade. "Will he be okay?"

The nurse's piercing glare had snapped toward Jones - challenging her interruption – before softening as she took in the genuine concern. Joe Roberts watched as the nurse heaved a resigned sigh. She brushed a stray hair away from her forehead, before saying, "He's a tough kid. He'll pull through.

I hope you got the answers you came for."

Roberts and Jones stood as they watched the plucky sexagenarian walk down the corridor to the nurses' station, arms laden with medical paraphernalia.

The two agents shared a last sympathetic glance at the hospital door that hid Gregory House from view, before making their way out of the hospital in silence.

* * *

Roberts had been the one to extract House from the dank pit they kept him shackled in. The shock and revulsion had been plainly evident on the law enforcement officers and paramedics who were with him, and even he – ex-army FBI Agent Joseph Roberts – had a hard time keeping his own fury in check when the skeleton lying on the floor gave a weak flinch at the grate of the door and the sudden intrusion of light. A junior agent – still fresh and green – had been heard hurling up his lunch contents from the horrendous stench that emanated from the cell, a foul mixture of coppery blood and the sharp, festering stink of waste.

Roberts had crouched down and made his way slowly to the crumpled figure, empty hands open and held in front of him to show his peaceful intentions. Upon seeing the former doctor curled on the cold, stone floor, struggling to breathe even as he hiccupped panicked pleas and attempting to burrow to a nearby corner in minute movements, the agent had felt his chest constrict painfully. He concentrated on keeping his deep voice soft and moderate, as he silently signalled the paramedics to hurry in.

"Dr. House, I'm Special Agent Joseph Roberts, we've come to get you out. Everything's over, let us help you."

Roberts had felt increasingly anxious about how passive House had seemed, and his alarm only grew as he took in the bluish tinge to House's fingers and lips. His breaths also seemed to come at long, irregular intervals.

_Hypothermia. Shit._

The paramedics had been efficient, clapping a BVM resuscitator over House's nose and mouth and transferring him to a gurney even as Roberts had reached up to unfasten his iron restraints. House, was at this point too weak and disoriented to struggle and had flopped into the paramedics' arms like a broken doll. He was immediately whisked to a waiting ambulance, and taken to the hospital.

* * *

The shock of seeing House on the hospital bed earlier had been just as poignant as the initial meeting at the prison. The disgraced doctor was dwarfed in comparison to the large, bulky electronic equipment that circled him, and the O2 mask and the sharp, protruding cheekbones enhanced his gaunt face.

Doctor Whitley had provided them the medical details and warned both agents on his patient's condition, but they found themselves ill-prepared for the conversation that ensued.

Jones had taken the lead in the questioning, as Dr. Whitley had mentioned House seemed more at ease in the presence women. Roberts had stood back as he watched his partner introduce them both – House didn't seem to recognise his rescuer – before launching into business.

The man on the bed was tense, but did not appear frightened of Marion, even as she leaned closer to hear his hoarse answers as they were muffled by the mask. Roberts, standing away from the scene, had the time to observe his subjects. He had to hand it over to Jones, this was her first time meeting House, but her expression was schooled to show none of the emotions she must have felt as she took in the injuries and scars on the patient. He strained to listen in on the exchange.

"Mr. House - "

Jones broke off as House flinched sharply at the unfamiliar title – a reminder of his lost medical license and its costs. She waited patiently until he had calmed down somewhat – he still refused eye contact - before proceeding with her query.

"We need you to tell us what the Contract is, and Robert Thompson's involvement in your incarceration."

Her eyes widened at his next sentence.

"What year is this?"

"2009. You've been in for 5 years. Dr. House, what was the last event you remember?

He managed to grunt out, "Election, Bush", after the third time Jones had repeated the question.

_Jesus. What the hell happened in prison?_

"Do you know who the current President is?"

House had chosen to avoid giving a reply entirely, opting instead for an entirely new tack.

"Are _they_ okay?"

Jones, caught unawares by the non sequitur, had blinked in confusion before moving closer and asking, "Is who okay, Dr House?"

House had allowed his eyes to drift shut then, taking in long hissing breaths, and had remained silent for so long a pause the two agents had thought he'd fallen asleep. Just as Jones had got up to leave, House had rasped out, "Jimmy…Cuddy... th'kids…"

She'd returned to her perch then, placing a hand on his bed, and gave her gentle reassurance. "They're fine, Dr. House. Everyone on the Contract's safe. You saved their lives."

The man gave a snort and a feeble shake of his head at her statement, "You're only saying that because it's what I want to hear."

Roberts and Jones had shot each other puzzled looks upon hearing this, both of them not comprehending his statement. Dr. Whitley had warned them of House's mental state – fragile, disoriented, disconnected, and oftentimes unresponsive; they suspected bouts of hallucinations. Jones had stammered out, "N-No, I'm telling you because it's true. Everyone on the Contract is well. It's over."

"…Cameron?"

"She's - " Jones was unsure of what to say, her mouth hanging open stupidly.

_She's dead? Murdered? Beaten to death by your cane? The reason for your imprisonment?_

"We were hoping you could tell us about her, Dr. House."

The cardiac monitor had bleeped loudly then, an indication of his jump in heart rate. Outward signs of his agitation were only revealed by the jerk of his head as he faced away from Jones, before he huffed, the words rolling out of his cracked lips in the haste of their delivery, "Said too much. You should go."

"If you could just tell us something, we promise it's kept completely confidential."

House gaze had flickered toward the brand on his forearm – 5,2 – and for the first time in their encounter, he had fixed his blue eyes – made more unnerving by the angry red scar running from the inside of his right eye to his jaw - on Jones. She felt a cold chill run down her spine at the intensity and panic she saw embedded in them. Through his forced pants he managed to murmur, "Clause 5, subsection 2.

Go away. I don't wanna talk."

From the corner of her eye, Jones could see her partner step closer to the bed, whether out of concern for her or the patient she did not know. The movement however, had not gone unnoticed by House, who had scooted to the other side of the bed, pressing himself against the rails that bracketed him. His breathing had become increasingly laboured, coming in staccato gusts that fogged up his mask. He had drawn his spindly arms close to his torso, and had started to quake. Jones had taken a step back in alarm, as monitors had started screaming, shattering the tense silence in the room.

House had tucked his chin to his sternum, a deformed hand reaching up to tightly cup the back of his skull. He'd tried drawing his legs up to his stomach, but ended up knocking his left knee into his mangled right thigh, the pain drawing out an agonized keen from him.

Dr Whitley and two nurses – including Morrigan - had rushed into the room then, with the other nurse telling the agents to leave, pushing them toward the open door, even as Dr. Whitley had instructed Morrigan to fetch a syringe. The startled agents had found themselves transfixed in shock at the huddled mass on the bed, balled tightly and whimpering over and over,

"Goawaygoawaygoaway…"

They saw Morrigan return and inject something into House's arm, as Whitley struggled to hold House still. Before the nurse had shut the door on them, Jones had managed to glimpse House's shivering form shudder and still.

_Christ._

_

* * *

_**Hope you liked this chapter, and as House would say, **

**"Everybody reviews."**

**I may have changed that a little.**

**Merry Christmas.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**First off, let me apologise for the late update, school and real life got in the way (as they so often do), so bear with me.**

**Next, I have to apologise for the medical mistakes in this chapter (I feed on what Google gives me). My grammatical and terrible writing sins have found salvation in the form of my beta, KNITTYWOMAN, and she's been enormous help in correcting my pathetic prose, so I give my thanks: May she live long and prosper.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter, and it would be nice for you to review one you're through (I've been getting less reviews with every chapter - that's not right, right?). Love it, hate it, I won't know unless you tell me.**

**Thanks again.**

* * *

Two pairs of eyes – one warm brown and glazed with disbelief and pain, the other cloudy blue and blazing with tears of maternal fury – stared riveted at an opaque hospital door that concealed the patient. Though their gazes were elsewhere, James Wilson and Lisa Cuddy were listening intently to Dr Whitley as he rattled off statistics from House's medical chart.

The lists were never-ending; inventories of House's injuries, treatment, medication, and progress were being read out one after another in rapid succession. Every time an item was read, Wilson had prayed it would be the last, but as yet another was announced, and _every_ time Wilson felt the knot in his chest coil painfully tighter. He had tried to turn away, tried to purge all thought that someone had managed to break his best friend – Gregory House the brilliant and snarky, resident grouch of New Jersey – but he couldn't.

House hadn't run away.

* * *

_You have to know this information; Dr Cuddy is listed as his attending physician, and you are his emergency contact,_ Whitley had said.

_If I'm going to let you see him, you have to be prepared.

* * *

_

Cuddy had never been one for emotional displays. One didn't get to the top by being soft, especially not a woman under 50. She'd developed a carapace over the years that kept her composed and a steely doggedness that had eventually bagged her the position of Dean at a prestigious hospital before she had hit the age of 35.

No, Lisa Cuddy ate pit bulls for breakfast.

Yet Cuddy found herself unable to control the wet streams that now trickled down her cheeks and under her chin, and struggled to suppress the urge to scream in bloody vengeance and a desire to curl up and claw these past years from her permanent memory.

* * *

Just yesterday Agents Jones and Roberts had shown them the evidence they'd collected for the case, most notably the video stash in Thompson's home and the Contract. With as much tact as she could manage, Jones filled them in on the story that had constructed so far. Cuddy and Wilson had sat in their seats, unable to move or say anything for what seemed like hours even after Agent Roberts had hit the 'Stop' button on the player. Wilson snapped out of his trance only when Roberts had solemnly handed over a stack of envelopes; James reached out with trembling fingers, thus relinquishing his tight hold on the evidence bag that contained the Contract and allowing the bag to fall to the floor. Cuddy avoided looking at the faded dark red of the words – dried blood, _House's_ blood – and shifted her gaze onto the object in her companion's hands. She felt a heavy weight settle in her insides.

Wilson was holding his unopened letters to House. Roberts said Thompson had withheld them.

She reached over and wrapped her slim fingers around Wilson's, and felt him squeeze tightly and hold on – as if trying to anchor himself. He had looked up then, staring blankly into the wall in front, and the next thing he said had caused her to wrap him into her embrace, as they both leaned into each other in their collapse.

"He went through this alone. I just thought he was ignoring me, Cuddy, he never got – never knew – I mean I - _I broke his cane_. He must have thought I hated him."

Cuddy's last moments with House before his imprisonment hadn't been favourable either. Guilt now clawed at her, as memories of how she had treated him now re-surfaced – making him sit outside of her office, threatening to fire him, ignoring him – and reasons for his eccentric behaviour became clear. His breakdown in the clinic, his refusal to go home, his unusually submissive attitude, the unexplained injuries – he had been suffering _alone _for _years,_ right under their noses, with no one throwing an ounce of compassion or understanding his way.

His best friend had stopped talking to him; he had no escape, no way to find comfort, and yet he had bound himself to the abuse just so others would be spared. When he was condemned to a life sentence, nearly everyone had sneered and thought it a punishment well deserved.

_No one deserved this._

_

* * *

_Allowing their instincts as doctors to take over, Wilson and Cuddy ran through the information Dr Whitley had provided.

House was on oxycodone for the pain; it was hard to adjust a dosage, for House had been reluctant to reveal when he was in pain (a lesson beaten into him through years of repeated torture – the more you show it hurt, the more often you get hurt). Whitley was also weaning him off the oxygen mask, switching him to a nasal cannula. He was also on a whole arsenal of antibiotics and prophylactics, to combat the infection and give his immune system time to recover. Unfortunately, a stronger immune system also meant an increased risk of skin graft rejection, a possibility they would have to monitor closely. Nutrition and hydration was being supplied through TPN and IV fluids, and his fever finally showed signs of abating. His sutures were healing nicely, and the sepsis was clearing up. When he was stronger surgery would restore some of his mobility, but much of the damage to his body was permanent. His bones were too bent out of shape, his ligaments torn and sprained, and his muscles were atrophied from lack of use. House had diminished sensation in his hands, his fingers unable to sense anything at all, the nerves deadened from the burns and other forms of brutality inflicted on them over the years.

Both Wilson and Cuddy were relieved to note that the repeated _violations _– Wilson had punched a wall in a fit of rage when Whitley had mentioned them – had not resulted in disease. The assaults, however, had not left House's body unscathed. His prostate had become damaged and inflamed, and the more severe tears needed stitching. Cuddy had gnashed her teeth, and felt a new surge of sorrow wash through her.

What was even more worrying was his mental welfare. Whitley informed them that House was inevitably suffering from PTSD, and would succumb to frequent panic attacks and flashbacks, which would only serve to further aggravate his recovery. When he wasn't out of his mind with fear, House was passive and withdrawn. From what the hospital staff had seen, he also did not believe he was safe, or in the news of Thompson's death. House appeared to have problems distinguishing reality from his hallucinations, and behaved as if everyone around him was just a figment of his imagination.

Wilson pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. _Greg, what the hell did they do to you?_

Cuddy reached over and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and ran the other one through her hair. She braced herself mentally as Wilson nodded to her before pushing the wooden hospital door open.

_You must be prepared_, Whitley had warned.

They stepped quietly into the room.

_Be prepared for what?_


	5. Chapter 5

**TORTURE WARNING! If you get squicked easily I suggest you skip House's flashbacks, cause there are descriptions of his time in the prison. I don't really know why I enjoy torturing him. **

**The next chapter might take a teeensy while longer, because I can't seem to wrap my head around the medical stuff.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I have to thank my long-suffering beta KNITTYWOMAN for putting up with me.**

**Cheers. Please be nice and review after reading.**

**

* * *

**The prone figure on the bed remained oblivious to the new arrivals to his room, his fragile state demanding ample rest. He was blissfully unaware of the creak from the door hinges as the visitors made their entrance. Nor did he respond to the stifled sob or the shocked hitches in breath as Wilson and Cuddy drew closer to the bed and took in his ravaged appearance. He did not feel the two pairs of warm, gentle hands that softly grazed his left arm and caressed his brow, and failed to rouse to the soft exhalations of his name that shattered the stifling silence.

'_House_.'

* * *

What House did feel – had felt, was _feeling_ – was the sheer blinding agony of having his battered body being pinned down by the prison guards even as their accomplice lifted the crowbar high before sending it swinging down onto his right thigh. The low whistle of the metal as it sliced through the air was replaced with a dull thud as the rod connected with human flesh, the crack of bone muted by a tormented scream from the prisoner as his captors whooped loudly at their victory.

A scuffle would follow as House put up a pitiful struggle to escape their hold, and ended when one of the guards got impatient with his squirming and rammed his fist into the soft flesh of his abdomen; they rarely hit him in the head - he passed out too often for their liking.

If he passed out before the sessions were over, the guards would seek brutal ways of awakening him– boiling water or alcohol poured over open wounds was preferred. His journeys into oblivion would also result in a three-day cessation of his food rations (the sole bowl of watered-down gruel his only daily meal) , leaving him to survive on the dog dish of murky water. Initially, House had attempted to filter out the bugs and grit in the water by using his stained uniform, but he soon stopped caring about what he drank as long as it assuaged his thirst. Besides, the fabric soon became coated in his sweat, blood and other bodily fluids, and was as filthy as the water itself. He was certain he sometimes tasted and smelled urine in the bowl, but seeing it was the only form of hydration he received, he drank it down without a second thought.

As House lay sucking in whooshing gusts of air, failing to contain the whimpers and hiccuping sobs that painfully jarred his fractured ribs, the "games" would resume as the guards decided on what to do next.

The guards had briefly released their vice-like grips on him, and roughly flipped him over – "accidentally" kneeing him in his broken femur or groin. He felt the kiss of the cool air on his skin as he was methodically stripped and made to kneel. He tensed and clenched his eyes shut in surrender.

* * *

Wilson collapsed into the plastic chair next to House's bed, his body suddenly too stiff and unwieldy. He dimly registered the slight pressure on his bicep as Cuddy squeezed it, but his attention was completely focused on the prostrate form in front of him.

_His best friend was nearly unrecognisable._

House was swathed in layers of thin, worn hospital blankets, and whatever part of his body that was visible was either covered in bulky white bandages or discoloured and weeping from stitches, bruises and blisters. His upper torso was supported by the elevated headrest and extra pillows positioned on either side of his body as well as under his head, shoulders and right leg. The sunken hollows and sharp planes of his face were made more pronounced by the fluorescent night light just above his head. House was victim of night blindness; repeated blows to the head and malnourishment had affected his vision, making it impossible for him to see in low light, leading to more panic attacks.

Wilson's eyes traced the path of the nasal cannula that meandered from his nostrils across the purple bruise over his cheek and lower eyelid, looping over his ears – the tip of the left one showed traces of frostbite – before joining at his neck and disappearing into his gown.

House's breathing was coming in reedy whispers of air, and Wilson winced in sympathy every time he heard his friend fight to draw air. Wilson heard his own respirations, snuffly and wet from crying and unconsciously keeping rhythm with House's.

Wilson rested his head on his left hand that was gripping the bedrails, hesitantly reaching out to House's face with his right to lightly trace the edges of the bruise. A strip of scar tissue had formed around House's neck, darkened and leathery from being chafed repeatedly against a collar. A thin, jagged white line ran across his prominent Adam's apple.

Wilson's eyes raked over the leads that were attached to his friend's thin, scarred chest that was partially obscured by a white patch of bandage – he could make out each pair of ribs and the sternum through the paper of skin – and followed the path of the wires that ran to the monitors around his head. His training as a physician had already taken in the stats displayed in glowing numbers with a glance noting the slightly elevated temperature and heart rate. House's blood pressure was still too low for comfort, but his oxygen saturation seemed to hold its own in the mid-90s.

Wilson's attention was diverted to the pulse oximeter clipped onto House's index finger. The straight, smooth lines of the pulse-ox and the pale, flawless skin of Cuddy's hand wrapped around House's had contrasted sharply with the deformed appendage she held. House's hand was a patchwork of colours and textures, a reddish-pink where the skin grafts were, with stitches that cut angry lines across the swirls of aged burn scars.

His nails were also discoloured, white bands streaking across the nail plates, the edges split and chipped, with great fragments missing, exposing the vulnerable flesh underneath. The nail on his left thumb was missing entirely, having died and fallen off or, more likely, mercilessly ripped away.

Cuddy's perfectly manicured nails winked merrily at him in the light.

The phalanxes had joined in odd angles to each other, dipping in unnatural grooves and protruding in strange places. Wilson tried to replace the memory of watching a guard in the video bring down his baton on his friend's splayed fingers by recalling the same digits dance effortlessly over polished piano keys.

The guilt Wilson felt intensified tenfold as he recounted the way House had been treated in the weeks before Cameron's murder. They'd all accused House of letting his self-destructive tendencies run rampant, allowing his crazy antics to get him into trouble; whispers of drug and alcohol abuse were heard in the hallways.

_They should have known better._

Wilson let his gaze sweep over the scarred left wrist and followed the line of his forearm to the IVs and PICC line taped there, snaking to the transparent bags hanging on the pole by his side. The rest of House's form was mercifully hidden under the blankets, sparing him the sight of whatever lay underneath.

_If only some of the same clemency had been shown to House._

Wilson felt his throat burn, as he drew in stuttered gulps of air. His hands lifted to his face, fingers slightly spread as if in an attempt to cage the flow of grief. When Cuddy draped a slender arm across his shoulders, Wilson found himself willingly leaning into her embrace as he shuddered.

* * *

Over Wilson's shoulder Cuddy studied House's face for what seemed like hours, as if she were able to see into his tortured mind, and erase whatever plagued him as she clutched Wilson firmly to her. Through the blur of her tears she could see the twitch of House's eyelids as he slept; besides an almost inaudible whine, he showed no other signs of stirring.

_Where are you, House?

* * *

_

House was in hell.

He was sprawled out on the cold concrete floor, his frail and battered body no longer able to hold him up any longer as the last guard climbed off him, buckling up his trousers. The guard sneered and delivered a swift kick to House's bruised side, sending an angry flare of agony through his body that rendered all thought impossible. House swallowed the moan that threatened to escape, but could not contain the tears that leaked out, forming dark circles on the gray cement. Instinctively, he curled around himself, gingerly shifting his broken right leg to take the pressure off, intending to remain in this position forever until his injuries and health got the better of him.

But the guards had other plans in mind, and seized his limbs before he could draw them closer.

"Here - hey Sherm'! I think he's getting tired again!"

"What a wuss!" Sherman reached forward and violently yanked a fistful of House's hair back, hissing into his right ear (his left had been damaged from scores of right hooks and his once acute aural sensitivity was replaced by frequent bouts of tinnitus). "You really need to work out more. How 'bout some yard time?"

A few years back House would have shredded the guy's comment with a quip about how a guard that resembled Jabba the Hutt was lecturing a _cripple_ about exercise, and oh by the way, he ought to check himself for diabetes mellitus.

Now House only found himself fighting against a rising tide of panic. The guards might have been the main cause of his suffering, but the inmates at the yard were those who got creative. The guards were equipped with batons and were generally cruel morons, but the other prisoners had secret stashes of shivs and penknives, and years of street-smart experience and emotional frustration to boot. They didn't see or interact with House very often, which only made it easier to think of him as nothing more than prey. On occasion House had caught pitying stares from some of the weaker inmates, but they'd refused to interfere – they were too low on the food chain to do much, and they'd all rather House get the brunt of the tormentors' fury.

_Better you than me._

In this state of debilitation, House knew he wouldn't last five minutes in the ring. Perhaps the guards sensed it too, as they lifted him roughly to his feet, reopening old wounds and forming new ones in the process. They shoved him toward the execution room that doubled as his private "infirmary" – the bed and restraints were perfect for his "examinations", and his captors could always view his suffering from the window above. His right leg unable to bear any weight, House had collapsed against the nearest guard, who pushed him away disgustedly, causing him to stumble into another. The latter guard laughed as he shoved him to another, and they walked the entire journey that way, tossing House from one person to the next as he staggered hopelessly along.

By the time they reached the cell House had collapsed against the reclined chair, too far out of his mind with terror and pain to stop his sniffling sobs. He felt his uniform stripped away; his naked form was lifted onto the makeshift bed, and the cuffs fastened tightly around his wrists and ankles. A guard – House didn't know which - slapped his shoulder as he left for the viewing area. "Don't worry, 501, the Doc'll fix you right up. You'll be able to play with the other kids again in no time." Then he guffawed stupidly and left the room.

House's heart was hammering away in the confines of his ribs. The "Doc", as the guard had so kindly called him, had obviously never taken the Hippocratic Oath. His primary duty was to ensure House was there to live another day, and thus House was pumped full of drugs that just barely kept him alive. His previous "check-ups" had consisted of countless procedures performed on him without the benefit of anesthesia; somehow House got the feeling they weren't too concerned about medical protocols in this dump.

Cuddy would have eaten them alive if they'd done this in PPTH.

_Huh. Lots of scalpels in Princeton Plainsboro. _House never realized that until now.

The arrival of the "doctor" was heralded with the quiet creak of the door. House had whimpered when he'd heard clanging of the tray of metal instruments and the snap of latex gloves. He felt the tickle of the doctor's breath as he carried out his examination.

House was seriously sobbing now, the fear causing his entire form to tremble under the restraints. His nudity only made him feel more exposed and vulnerable, unprotected from the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights and the vicious prodding from the physician.

Where the guards were obnoxious and clumsy, the doctor was calm and methodical. Where the guards and inmates were excitable and loud, the doctor carried out his torment with an apathetic precision, almost as if House were nothing more than a lab mouse.

If House was brought in with few injuries, the doctor saw fit to use him as an experimental subject, testing the limits of his capacity for suffering or simply using him as an anatomy model. Thompson didn't really care what they did to House as long as he was still breathing at the end of it.

_Muscles go here, bones over there._

With a sharp crack, his broken femur was reset without preamble, and House arched violently off the chair, his mouth open in a silent scream. Whatever was left of his right quadriceps spasmed, clamping down around the fracture site. His nails dug into the soft flesh of his palms, and colours erupted in his vision. Most people would have blacked out by now, by that point, but he was not so fortunate.

The doctor's hands left his body and he disappeared from House's field of vision. House heard the quiet tinkle of metal; being unable to see what was going on made the experience even more terrifying. Behind the tinted glass he could see the guards shift with anticipation.

Still reeling from the shock of having his bone reset, House had slipped into a numb torpor, an odd ringing in his ears. His muffled whimpers and moans resonated loudly in the eerie silence.

He snapped back to attention when he felt the cauter being applied to the large laceration on his abdomen. He screamed for real this time, as the tool was pressed into his open wound. The red-hot brand seared his raw, bleeding flesh shut upon contact, yet the physician held the metal to the injury for minutes before moving to the next spot. House instinctively pulled away from the source of the agony, but was held firmly in place by the restraints. His eyes were screwed tight, and his ears filled with an odd roaring; his nostrils filled with the scent of scorched flesh as his skin continued sending blinding waves of torment that overloaded his system, and it took all of House's effort to draw another stuttering breath. His vision started to swim with coloured spots, whiting out before the darkness mercifully consumed him.

* * *

Cuddy and Wilson jumped when the monitors cried shrilly, alarm quickly taking over. Wilson rushed to House's bedside even as Cuddy ran toward the call button.

Both of them were unprepared for the sobs that shook House's frame as he woke, his confused blue eyes flying open in shock as he felt Wilson place his hand on his fevered forehead. Hearing his strained gasps, Cuddy reached up and grabbed the oxygen mask off the hook, sealing it tightly around House's nose and mouth watching his confused gaze sweep wildly around the room.

Wilson and Cuddy had taken up their own croons of comfort, their voices overlapping and tripping over each other in their haste to calm House down. House barely seemed to hear them, his wide eyes landing briefly on Cuddy, then fixed on Wilson, a flash of recognition glinting behind layers of pain and fright. House screwed his eyes tightly shut, tears leaking out the corners and running along the rim of his oxygen mask. With great effort, he shifted his ruined arm toward Wilson, who gently grabbed hold of it, cradling it in his palm. Wilson cringed when he saw how House's fingers curled and overlapped over each other. When he looked back at his friend's face, he saw his friend pin him with a pleading gaze, and arch slightly off the bed.

"W'lson…it hurts." House whimpered softly, his hoarse cry interspersed with loud gasps for air, "please make it stop…m'chest…d'zzy. Can't breathe."

Wilson's reply was cut off by the entry of House's medical team, taking up their stations in the room as they rushed to stabilise their patient while Cuddy quickly filled them in on House's status. His grip was torn away from House's as he and Cuddy were ushered out. The last thing Wilson remembered seeing was House's eyes roll back into his head as his body went slack.

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**Liked it? Hated it? Please Read and Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's a new chapter, enjoy, reviews would be nice because I'm pathetic and need affirmation.**

**Many thanks again to my poor Beta, KNITTYWOMAN, who has to endure my pathetic writing.**

**Evans is a character from Priority's Exigencies, a MUCH better Contract-verse story.  
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Wilson paced the length of the hospital corridor, hands on his hips. The medical team had been in House's room for what seemed like hours, and he was frustrated, angry, worried and frightened that he was going to lose House so quickly after just getting him back. Wilson ran a hand through his hair angrily, and fired a steely glance at the closed door of the room.

Cuddy had left after receiving a call about a crisis in the hospital. Some idiot intern had broken an MRI machine; Wilson had had to stop Cuddy from throwing the phone at a nearby wall when she'd found out. Cuddy had only left after making Wilson promise to keep her updated about House's condition, heels clacking loudly with each furious step as she walked away, leaving Wilson to deal with the aftermath.

House's story was already all over the news. No one had all the details yet, but the grapevine was abuzz with his case, and already speculations were floating around about Thompson's involvement. Cuddy had scoured the hospital records for his name, trying to recall if House had ever treated anyone from the Thompson clan as a patient. The FBI had not yet found a link either, and their last attempt at getting a statement from House had not ended as well as anyone might have hoped.

Wilson snapped out of his musings when he heard the click of House's hospital door opening, and immediately moved toward Dr Whitley, hands clenched anxiously.

Whitley took off his latex gloves, and removed his mask before turning to Wilson. "He's in shock. We've put him back on the ventilator and increased his dosage of antibiotics. We're going to run blood tests to rule out staph bacteremia or anything that could have caused this. Could also be a pulmonary embolism, we'll check him for clots."

Wilson had stuttered stupidly as he took in this information. "H-How bad is it? I mean, is he going to be okay?"

"He went into respiratory arrest for 40 seconds, but we managed to get him intubated in time. The symptoms were masked by his other conditions, made it hard to tell one from the other. We're thinking he's contracted a drug-resistant strand of bacteria; we need tests to make sure. He's critical, but stable – for now."

Wilson could only nod mutely, before asking quietly, "Can I see him?"

Whitley agreed only under the conditions that physical contact be kept to a minimum, and that Wilson wear a new set of scrubs; they could not risk further instances for opportunistic infections. As an oncologist, Wilson assured Dr Whitley he knew how to handle patients with compromised immune patients.

He rang up Cuddy first, leaving a message on voicemail, before leaving to scrub up.

* * *

If House looked frail before, it was nothing compared to the sight that greeted Wilson now. The tube that emerged from his mouth seemed like something out of a horror movie, and Wilson noted House was hooked up to a dialysis machine.

Wilson sat by the bed, and ignored the niggling fear that House was going to die the minute he looked away.

The mortality rate for shock was well over 50 percent in healthier patients. House was already dealing with pneumonia, starvation, malnourishment, wounds and PTSD; the odds were stacked heavily against his survival. Wilson sincerely hoped the shock was caused by some other factor.

Well, James Wilson didn't become one of the best oncologists in Princeton by giving up on his patients.

He rested his hand on the bed rail, leaning in close to whisper in House's ear. "Hey…I don't know if you can hear this, but if you could it'd be nice if you told me to shut up."

House's only reply was the tiny hitch of his head as the ventilator pushed air into his lungs. Undeterred, Wilson continued speaking.

"The hospital's changed since you left. You didn't get my letters, so too bad, I'm just going to start from scratch. Clinic's been less interesting, though Cuddy saved a bunch of money on legal fees. The kids are bored stiff by Evans; uh, he got hired right after you…uh, never mind. He's a nice enough guy, plays by the rules, treats patients nicely – you'd have fun with him."

This was a pathetic mimicry of the old times, moments shared over Chinese food and bad porn, laughing over anecdotes gathered from the hospital. But Wilson could care less.

"Cuddy's thinking of adopting. She'll be a good mother."

Wilson broke off to swallow the growing lump in his throat. He scrubbed his hands over his face, choosing his next sentences carefully. It did not matter House was unconscious; Wilson was going to make sure only good news reached his ears; they would deal with everything else _when_ House woke up.

Wilson filled in the next hour with bits and pieces of information, celebrity gossip and General Hospital's latest plot developments, things House had loved before.

Chuckling as he recalled the clinic patient who had pulled his back after attempting an unusual sexual maneuver and tried to pass it off as a gym workout gone wrong, Wilson allowed the last of the hysterical chuckles fade away before letting his tears get the better of him again.

Wilson hated how plaintive his voice sounded as he spoke again. "Well, that's it. I'll come back tomorrow - something interesting will have happened by then."

Wilson scooted closer to the bed and fiddled with his friend's blankets, untangling them from the leads.

"Don't go anywhere until then, okay?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry to have kept you waiting.**

**The flashback/dream sequence was intentionally made to look ambiguous, think of it as a blend of House's experience and Wilson's worst nightmare. I hope it isn't too confusing.**

**Here's the next chapter, enjoy.**

**Reviews make me want to write this story more.**

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House was curled up in the corner of the dark room.

Even in the dim lighting, House's distress was plain – fine tremors washed over his body, and harsh, ragged breathing was accompanied by visible puffs of vapour.

He would receive no comfort.

The heavy silence was disturbed by angry shouts, muted by the door, which crashed open without warning, illuminating the cell with unforgiving, stabbing beams of light. Before House could gather his senses, he was seized roughly by faceless silhouettes and thrown roughly onto the freezing stone floor. His feet scrabbled for purchase even as he was flipped onto his back and a hand clamped around his throat, cutting off his air supply.

A booted foot stomped on his sternum and House clenched his teeth together when he felt the man's full weight settle between his ribs. Through the fog of pain and asphyxiation House could make out the panicked conversation between the guards.

"…Thompson's dead…shot…kill this asshole…"

"…murder…won't say anything…"

"…not if…dead."

House found himself blacking out, his lungs burning from the effort of drawing in whispers of air. Before he could surrender himself to the sweet relief of unconsciousness, however, the pressure on his throat and chest disappeared and his traitorous body instinctively sucked in greedy gulps of oxygen.

House didn't much care why the guard left, or what they happened to be arguing about. Instead, he found his eyelids drooping and the tendrils of exhaustion wrapping themselves around his mind.

God, he was tired.

Even as his shivering became more violent, House felt a pleasant numbness block out his pain, and a warm tingling was coursing through his body. _Stage 2 hypothermia_. He should have been worried, but at the moment he couldn't have cared less.

He blinked twice sluggishly, and let his head loll to the side, his bloodied cheekbone resting against the cool floor.

_Wilson._

There he was, the elusive fucker. Standing there with his 'concerned doctor' outfit on. Wilson was a hallucination, House knew, but his friend's presence had always emanated comfort. Maybe that was why Jimmy only showed up when House wanted him most.

Jimmy always showed up.

And as far as hallucinations went, Wilson was a better sight than Cameron, half her face masked by congealed blood and her lifeless eyes taunting him, mouth hung open in silent accusation. Cuddy showed up sometimes, and would draw him into her arms as he sobbed.

With his eyes trained on the opposite end of the room, House failed to notice the rusty shiv poised over his exposed throat, the pulsing jugular singing to the blade.

House saw Wilson's eyes widen in panic, and watched as he ran toward him with his arm outstretched, a cry of anguish bursting forth from between his lips as the blade was brought down.

Wilson awoke screaming, sodden t-shirt sticking to his back as he felt the cool evaporation of sweat. He flung the covers off him as he fought to calm himself, head in his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees. He jumped as the alarm clock went off, and shakily walked to the bathroom where he splashed water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and took in the circles under his eyes. Wilson hadn't a good night's rest since his first meeting with House a week ago at the hospital. Every night seemed to conjure up nightmares in which he played a helpless bystander watching House die again and again, either in the prison or hospital.

House had been stable since his respiratory arrest, and was back on the path to convalescence after the appropriate treatment was administered for his pulmonary embolism. The warfarin seemed to be doing its job, though House was still on a ventilator and had yet to regain consciousness – a few times his eyes had opened, but those moments were too brief to be significant.

Wilson had faithfully visited House everyday after work, taking measures to prevent the transfer of viruses or bacteria from PPTH onto House – a spare change of clothes, antiseptic wipes and surgical masks.

The first time he saw House's fragile naked form, when the nurse – Geraldine – had accepted his help to give House his daily sponge bath, Wilson had stood uselessly at the side, the shock overriding his desire to keep a professional front. Geraldine had glanced sympathetically at Wilson as she noticed the tears that streamed down his face.

Wilson got better at controlling himself after that, but House's scars and injuries never became easier to look at.

Wilson sighed as he started the shower and pushed the depressing thoughts from his mind.

He had work to do.

"House needs long-term care."

Cuddy had looked up at Wilson's knock, and ushered him in with a nod.

"I've already looked into that, and found some facilities that come highly recommended."

She opened a drawer and drew out several pamphlets and brochures, and passed them to Wilson, who wordlessly browsed through some of them as Cuddy continued.

"This hospital is fully prepared to provide any further treatment. But if he chooses to seek medical aid elsewhere, these places are less than ten miles away, and they are some of the best. We could send a home nurse -"

Cuddy was interrupted by a frustrated shake of the head from Wilson, as he tossed the brochures on the desk.

"I could take care of him. He doesn't need a stranger. I – _we_ – owe it to him."

"James, I'm not suggesting we abandon him. But between your job and taking care of House you might not be able to handle the stress. It's not fair to you or House."

Wilson played uncomfortably with his tie, as he chose his next sentence carefully.

"Which is why I plan to take an unpaid leave of absence once House is released."

Cuddy set her pen down, and pondered this through.

"How long do you need?"

Wilson ran a hand through his hair. "Until House gets better."

"James, if that's what you want I'll grant it to you. But we're talking months, maybe years. Have you thought this through? The case is still under investigation."

"I…_have_ to do this. My patients will be transferred to other oncologists; House needs me more."

As far as the case was concerned, Wilson was sure House's pardon was certain. Agent Roberts had informed him of the death of Thompson's daughter seven years ago, from a genetic disease. House had not been her physician, but acquaintances of Thompson said the millionaire had never gotten over her death, and had harboured deep hatred for medicine and doctors. People who knew Thompson also reported he seemed happier in the weeks before and during the period of House's imprisonment, though none of them could have guessed why.

Further footage of House's time in the prison was also uncovered, this time with clear evidence of Thompson's involvement with Gregory House. The video had managed to capture the businessman towering over a frightened House as Thompson whispered menacing threats into his ear.

The FBI were now hunting down the guards involved, though they were unable to track down Thompson's lawyer, who was responsible for creating the contract and covering up the legal – or illegal - traces. House's prison "physician" was also nowhere to be found, much to Wilson's anger.

Once House had recovered enough they would need to get his statement, but until then it was all the detectives could do to keep coming up with new evidence.

Wilson had felt more and more like a stranger in the hospital after House's incarceration. He had found companionship in Foreman and Chase, and the three of them often ate together as they avoided the glares and sniggers from the other staff. The hospital no longer became a place for Wilson to find solace as he once did when his wives left. Instead, it had morphed into a hostile environment fro which he sought escape.

Wilson had been avoiding Chase and Foreman, who were both desperate for news on their former mentor. Both of the ex-fellows – hell, the whole hospital – knew House had been tortured and Thompson was involved, but that was all the information they got. As much as Wilson thought Chase and Foreman deserved to know, he was prohibited from speaking to anyone about House's case, and a desire to protect House's privacy kept his mouth shut.

Wilson was pulled out of his musings as Cuddy placed her hand on his.

"This is hard on all of us, Wilson, especially House. I'm glad you'll be there for him. Take care of yourself, though."

Wilson mutely nodded his thanks, and left Cuddy's office.

"So I guess you'll be staying with me once you get out. I still blow dry my hair, so you should enjoy the silence while you can."

Wilson chuckled softly as he sat by House's bedside.

"You'll probably end up yelling at the poor nurse anyway, and then she'll leave and I'll have to take care of you again. Think of it as removing the middleman.

"Cuddy seems to approve. Mind you, she's become more protective toward you. Today she practically tore the heads off these two nurses who were gossiping about you. Should've seen it. I thought she was going to turn them into newts."

Wilson sobered as he remembered House's condition.

"We're all pretty worried here. Even Foreman is starting to look like a Jewish mom."

Wilson paused, noticing House's finger twitch. Wilson held his breath, but his friend remained asleep.

"I found this new recipe. Macaroni and cheese with bacon and sautéed onions. You'll like it. I'll make it for you next time."

Wilson sat in silence for the rest of the time, just listening to House's breathing, calm and reassuring, unlike the visions from Wilson's nightmare last night. They were interrupted by the occasional nurse who came in for a blood pressure reading and urine sample, and the physical therapist who applied passive physical therapy as she gently massaged House's body to prevent further muscle atrophy. The therapist was pretty, and Wilson made sure that no detail was left out as he teased House about letting a woman do all the work once she left.

When it came the time for him to leave, Wilson planted a chaste kiss on House's temple, and turned to dim the lights. Before he closed the door, however, Wilson heard a faint noise from the bed, as if House was choking. Anxiously he called for help in the hallway, and immediately rushed back to House's bed, thinking House was once again suffering from respiratory distress. It was not until Wilson saw House's azure eyes open that something clicked.

House was choking because he was waking up.

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**Review, and I won't leave you in anticip - **


	8. Chapter 8

**So sorry for the wait. At least now my exams are over.**

**I have to thank the incredibly patient KNITTYWOMAN for smoothing out all my grammatical errors again.**

**Reviews would be nice.**

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Wilson waited by House's side as his friend sought to recover his strength. The extubation had been rough. The intrusive presence of the tube had almost sent House into another anxiety attack. When they finally got him calmed down enough, House was exhausted from the outburst and could only manage a feeble cough as the tube was removed. A bronchodilator was administered quickly and an oxygen mask was clamped over his mouth and nose.

House fell asleep while his vitals were being recorded, and Wilson had not moved from his post by the bed since.

It wasn't right, House being this weak. Wilson remembered a time when House used to outperform him during all of their matches – football, golf, tennis, squash, even on the track he was competitive. After the infarction House still walloped him every week in bowling.

Wilson was jarred out of his thoughts when House gave a soft groan, his eyes fluttering open. Wilson was on his feet in an instant.

"House? Hey, it's Wilson. Can you hear me?"

House blinked sluggishly as he whispered hoarsely after a heart-ystopping few seconds, "Jimmy?"

Wilson gave a short, tearful laugh as he squeezed House's arm gently. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this thankful. His shoulders sagged in relief.

"Yeah. Yeah it's Jimmy. How're you feeling?"

House's eyes slid closed as he breathed into the mask.

He hurt like a bitch. Every part of his body seemed to shriek discomfort – his bones ached, his throat stung, his muscles were stiff, the gown felt scratchy and the oxygen mask pressed insistently against the bruise on his face – he wasn't exactly on Cloud Nine at the moment.

"…House?"

He opened his eyes to see Wilson looking at him, brown eyes shining with concern at the lack of reply.

_Right. Wilson._

"M'fine."

He knew Wilson wasn't convinced. But thankfully his friend chose not to interrogate him at the moment.

"Okay. But if you're in pain you have to let us know."

House blinked once, hoping Wilson got the message, and closed his eyes again. No, he wasn't in pain. How could he be? He wasn't allowed to feel anything.

"You had a pulmonary embolism from a DVT in your calf. You've been unconscious for over a week."

House blinked again. He briefly remembered seeing Wilson and Cuddy, but that hadn't happened here, right?

No, Cuddy wasn't here now.

His eyelids seemed to be getting heavier. He lay there quietly for a few more seconds, relishing the cool mist of oxygen on his face, before licking his lips and crackling out, "Is th's real?"

Wilson jerked his head confusedly side to side, as he scooted closer to the bed and repeated the question worriedly.

"Is…this real?"

Wilson's voice seemed to distort.

"House? …Is what real?"

That was the last thing House heard as he surrendered to the darkness, his body going slack as his eyelids drifted shut.

* * *

The next time House opened his eyes was to the sensation of someone's hands on him. He was turned gently onto his side, supported by pillows, his gown untied as the person behind him examined and prodded his back. House stiffened as he felt the cold chill on his upper body and the feel of alien hands on him.

_Can't fight back, mustn't fight back…_

House screwed his eyes shut and started to curl his body, trying to burrow into a corner of his mattress as he tried to will the hands away.

Wilson wasn't here anymore. Bad things were going happen.

The hands miraculously lifted away from him, as the heavy blankets were tugged over his body. He heard footsteps shuffle around the bed, coming to a stop in front of him. House flinched violently as the person laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Sssshh…it's alright, I just needed to check your wounds. I'm not going to hurt you, it's Geraldine. Geraldine Morrigan. Your nurse, remember?"

* * *

"It's alright, we're not here to hurt you."

House startled as the door to his cell was thrust open, jolting him from his sleep. He instinctively yanked against his chains as he tried to disappear into the wall. The figures crouched in front of him. With the light behind them House couldn't make out their faces.

"It's alright," Silhouette One said.

"We won't hurt you," said Silhouette Two.

One of the figures reached for his cuffs, unshackling him. House refused to move, letting the restraints fall to the ground. He snapped to attention when he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes.

One was pushing a tray of food toward him. _Real_ food. And clean water.

"Take it. It's all yours," One gestured to the platter.

House held his breath, not daring to believe it was actually being offered. This had to be a trick. With great difficulty, he turned his head away from the tempting scent of stale bread and water.

They left the door open.

House entertained a fantasy scenario where he sprinted wildly for the exit. Yeah, like that was going to happen. Bum leg, and some goon used the sole of his foot as an ashtray this morning.

One clapped him on the shoulder, and both figures stepped back a few paces.

"We won't hurt you."

House's hand crept hopefully toward the water cup, stopping a few inches away from his target. He watched and waited. The Silhouettes made no move to stop him. His fingers reached the smooth plastic of the cup. He jerked his hand back, expecting a blow.

Nothing.

He reached out again, and this time wrapped his fingers around the drink, and slowly dragged it toward him.

Still nothing from One or Two.

House shakily lifted the cup to his lips, a few drops spilling onto his overalls. The water smelled fresh, its appearance clear and untinted. And it was so close. He carefully tilted the cup toward his lips. The water rolled toward his waiting mouth.

The first drop tasted sweet on his tongue, but he never got to taste the rest as the cup was knocked out of his hand, splashing the precious liquid over the cell as his head was smashed violently into the concrete wall. Stunned, he attempted to scramble to a corner to escape the assault.

House felt his shoulder pop as he was hauled up and his arm was twisted behind his back. His scream echoed in the dark confines of his cell.

His head was yanked back by his hair as a voice spat in his ear.

"I said _take_ it, I don't remember saying '_drink_'."

Much later, when they had left, House, sucking greedily on whatever water collected in the crevices of the floor - in considerably more pain than he was before - mentally kicked himself for his stupidity.

_Everybody lies.

* * *

_

"You're still in the hospital."

_No you aren't_, a voice cried.

"You're safe."

_No you're not._

He felt the hand rub circles on his shoulder.

"We won't hurt you."

House failed to retain his fragile hold on his mind, and everything started to close in. Through the chaos he heard Morrigan call for assistance. He gulped for air as more figures entered the room.

Something cool travelled up his arm, and it seemed to soothe him, smothering his terror as soon as it started. He felt his body go slack as he sank further into the mattress.

House slept.


	9. Chapter 9

**This is a really short chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it all the same. Mind you, I know nothing about legal proceedings, so everything based on imagination. Well duh, it's _Fanfiction_.**

**Thanks again to my Beta, KNITTYWOMAN!  
**

* * *

"They want to talk to you."

House blinked sluggishly at Wilson. He couldn't summon up enough strength to croak out a question, but he found he didn't have to.

"The FBI needs your statement."

Wilson eyed House nervously, on the alert for the slightest trace of emotional distress in his friend. He'd avoided this talk for as long as possible, knowing it was a topic that required much delicateness. Since House awoke from his coma three days ago, his mood alternated wildly between apathy and panic; he would be passive and silent one minute, then combative and skittish in the next, with little warning. Today, House seemed to be in the former, but that could all change quickly.

Wilson watched as House gave a quiet sigh, fogging up the clear plastic of his oxygen mask. He saw the slow sag of the bony shoulders and the heavy droop of House's eyelids, and when there was no response for a minute, Wilson wondered whether House had heard him at all.

His question was answered when a quiet rasp issued from his friend's chapped lips. Wilson leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, ears strained to catch House's reply.

"Wh't do th' wanna know?"

House blearily lifted one eyelid to peer at Wilson, and stared as his friend displayed all his nervous tics in full glory– rub neck, avoid eye contact, play with fingers. Before all this, he might have taken pleasure at his friend's awkwardness, but now House wanted to drift back into slumber.

"Wils'n."

Sighing heavily, Wilson reluctantly spoke. "They need your account on what happened…in there and…to Cameron. We've told them what we know, but…" Wilson trailed off, and gave a cross between a shrug and an apologetic movement of his hand.

_Oh._

House shifted slightly to make himself more comfortable, for a wrinkle in the blankets dug painfully into the jut of his hip. Wilson, of course, the overprotective maniac, interpreted this as a prelude to another panic attack, and immediately hopped closer, hands held up in front of him in a non-threatening posture. Unfortunately, the sudden flurry of movement was what sent House flinching into the bed, head tucked and arms crossed over his torso. Realising his mistake, Wilson backed away and stammered nervously, cursing himself furiously as he tried to calm House down.

"Oh – God, Hou-House! I-I'm-I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to - dammit, I-I'm sorry…"

"M'fine, W'sun."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean - "

Wilson caught the annoyed glance House shot him – diluted by layers of pain and exhaustion - but apparently still effective as the oncologist resumed his post. The room fell into an awkward silence as both men recovered from their embarrassment, neither making eye contact. Clearing his throat, Wilson hesitantly tried to resume conversation.

"House. You don't have to do it yet. We can wait till you're ready."

"No." House gave a short shake of his head. "…Get out?"

"You – Will it get you out?"

House's reply was a slow blink – _yes_.

Sensing that his friend was fading fast, Wilson answered quickly. "I think the odds are pretty good, House. They've already filed for a pardon. You'll be out in no time."

"Wilson."

House's companion straightened and listened intently at the mention of his name. When House turned his head on the pillows to look at Wilson, he was unable to contain the panic and terror that shone through his gaze.

"If this…doesn't work," House paused to gasp for air, and glanced meaningfully at Wilson.

"I-I won't be going back."


	10. Chapter 10

**Ah, here we go. Thanks for sticking with the story and for the encouragement.**

**Also thanks to KNITTYWOMAN for the beta.**

* * *

"Can you describe them? The people who assaulted you?"

House kept his gaze on the ceiling. He swallowed audibly before rasping, "No."

Agent Jones shifted uncomfortably. Since their session began House hadn't so much as made eye contact, and his answers were kept minimal – she was lucky to extract anything more than a 'yes' or 'no' from the man, and she did not fail to catch the fearful glance he cast around the room before every one. She understood his fears. Both she and Roberts had read the contract, studied its clauses, and knew the rules governing House's every movement – and their consequences.

It was a wonder this man was still willing or able to speak to them.

"Please House, we're just trying to help you out."

They waited.

Nothing.

"Okay. Can you confirm there were three of them?"

"…Yes."

The reply had been forced through gritted teeth, and Jones noted the way his hands had picked at the sheets and the swift glance at the door.

"Stay with me House, we're almost there."

Wilson paced worriedly along the length of the corridor outside of House's room. The agents have had been in there for a good part of an hour now, and with each passing minute he felt his anxiety grow. The last time House was in the room with the FBI he suffered a panic attack so severe Dr. Whitley had to sedate him, so Wilson supposed his concern was well founded.

House was in more pain recently. October was coming around and the cold intensified House's discomfort by causing his muscles to cramp painfully around damaged bone. The cramps sapped his meagre resource of energy – energy needed to recover, thus opening up whole new possibilities for complications.

Wilson thought all of this had better be worth it.

"Through our investigation, we found that - "

House roughly cut her off. "Don't care."

Jones blinked in confusion. Beside her, Roberts remarked incredulously, "You don't want to know why?"

Keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling, House laughed bitterly. "It's not going to change anything."

Jones drew back in surprise. "But - "

A pair of blue eyes turned to her, their colour flat and muted. "You've got what you came for."

Jones gave a short hesitant nod, acknowledging the dismissal and the change in topic. For a brief moment, she saw the power the man in front of her must have possessed before all this. But then he turned away again and the moment was gone.

"Yes, thank you for your cooperation."

She and Roberts got up to leave, glad that this session ended infinitely better than their previous visit.

"Feel better soon."

Wilson had immediately leapt up as soon as the door to House's room had cracked open, and stumbled over his questions in his hurry.

At Wilson's flustered demeanor Roberts raised a large hand to silence and reassure him, and rumbled, "It went well, we have everything we need."

"H-He actually told you the truth?"

"We hope so."

Slapping Wilson's shoulder as they turned to the corridor exit, Roberts glanced meaningfully back at him.

"We'll get them sons of bitches, Doc."

Buoyed slightly by the remark and relieved they were closer to restoring House's innocence, Wilson allowed himself a few seconds to savour the small victory before attending to House.

He meant what he said to Cuddy. House needed all the help and support he can could get, and Wilson was fully prepared to provide that even if it meant putting his own life and career on hold. He'd failed his best friend once, he'll he'd be damned if he made the same mistake again.

However, every time he saw House, Wilson can't couldn't help but wonder if his friend was even able to heal from his ordeal. If he doesn't didn't ...Well, if he doesn't didn't, Wilson will would worry then. Pushing those thoughts aside, Wilson carefully schooled his features back to normal, before stepping through the doorway.

House appeared to be resting comfortably, his eyes closed and his body still, but Wilson noted the tight pinch of his facial muscles and the slight hitch in his breathing that told a different tale.

Wilson learnt learned quickly to look out for subtle signs of House's discomfort. The diagnostician had steadily grown quieter since he'd woken up, and save for the instances where he lost control and lashed out in anger or curled up in fear, House was passive for the most part. The psychiatrist said it was a combination of the PTSD and his physical condition, but it only seemed to reinforce Wilson's theory that he was losing his friend.

"Wanna give me a rating?"

"I'm fine, Wilson."

"Okay. _Can_ you give me a rating?"

Knowing he wasn't getting off this easy, House sighed heavily and opened his eyes to glower at Wilson.

"Four."

Wilson kept quiet, and stared patiently at House, who rubbed a hand tiredly across his eyes before mumbling ashamedly, "Seven."

"Where?"

"The leg. Shoulder. Back."

Without a word, Wilson reached over and began to softly knead the muscle, noting the dryness of the skin and ignoring House's flinch at the contact. House looked away, embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Peering at the monitor, Wilson remarked in an attempt to distract them from the awkwardness of the situation, "Your breathing seems to be holding up."

He paused as House yelped suddenly; Wilson's hands had found a particularly painful knot. Wilson waited for House's breathing to even before gently applying pressure to loosen the kink, swallowing the tight lump in his throat as he looked at the scars again. It was a while before he trusted himself to speak.

"They'll be weaning you back onto solid food soon, I suppose. You seem to be doing well on the milk."

House grunted and tensed as Wilson hit another sore spot.

Wilson concentrated on his task, letting a few minutes tick by before quietly asking, "You wanna talk about it?"

House gave a sharp shake of the head. Wilson expected as much.

Allowing the matter to drop for now, they spent the next half hour in silence, which was occasionally broken by a pained hiccup or moan from House. A nurse interrupted them as she came to do an hourly check on her patient, but thankfully the visit was uneventful.

The massage seemed to have helped – House appeared more relaxed than before, though not by much. Wilson stepped out briefly to speak to Whitley about adjusting House's pain relief meds, and when he returned House had fallen asleep. Wilson threw the heating blanket he'd acquired from the nurse over House, and fiddled with the covers to ensure his friend was comfortable.

"Wilson."

House cracked his eyes open to watch his friend pause in his mother hen routine and look curiously back at him, dragging the chair closer to him so he could sit.

"Yeah?"

House let his head loll to the side to regard Wilson.

"D-d'you think…If I'd been _nicer_ this…"

House broke off, chuckling mirthlessly.

"N'ver mind. Stupid question."

He settled back into the bed, and refused to look at Wilson, who was currently gaping at his friend in shock.

House's caustic personality was as infamous as his intellect. Some might have thought the two were related. Granted, it didn't endear him to people, but for him to think that it warranted the level of inhumanity that House had suffered under the hands of those _fuckers_…

It was a common issue with abuse victims, but one Wilson hadn't expected House – strong, confident and rational – to fall prey to. Logic was all House invested in, yet if he allowed a thought like that to cross his mind…Wilson clenched his fists.

Trembling with barely restrained fury, Wilson chose to proceed carefully, and forced his next sentence out through gritted teeth.

"House. You thought that all this happened…because you were a jerk?"

House fidgeted uneasily and inched away from Wilson, picking up on his friend's anger. He was sure Wilson wasn't a threat to him, but…he'd dealt with the aftermath of anger before.

Wilson sensed his friend's agitation and forced himself to relax.

"House you can't possibly…think that you _deserve_ any of the things that happened to you! I mean, what happened…"

House snapped back bitterly, "I know what happened, Wilson."

He had to tread carefully here. In House's vulnerable state, the slightest misstep could send his friend running for the hills.

"It's not your fault, House. You should get some rest."

House waved feebly in his direction.

"Speak for yourself. I'm not the one carrying eye bags by Prada."

It was a simple joke. An insult, even. But it was the first House had ever made in five years, and it was all Wilson could do to conceal his delighted shock and not grin like a loony. House darted his eyes away immediately, unsure of Wilson's silence.

"Yeah, you're gorgeous, House. See you tomorrow."

Catching House's shy grin, Wilson closed the wooden door softly.

His smile stayed on the entire journey home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry for the long gap between updates.**

**WHAT was up with that finale?**

* * *

"Fuck, smells like shit in here."

"Think he's dead?"

A foot prodded insistently at his bruised flank, the action sending fresh waves of agony that spiked from his broken ribs, blinding his senses. He released a tortured cry that grated in his parched throat, and writhed pathetically on the ground.

"Nah. He's still moving."

"Cool."

House felt one of the guards slap his cheek.

"Hey! Asshole! 501! Rise and shine!"

His migraine intensified at the guard's barking, causing his vision to reel and spin. House moaned and emptied the meagre contents of his stomach, dehydration making it sticky and lumpy.

Just as well, for if it splashed onto the guard he'd never hear the end of it.

Disgusted, his tormentor shuffled back and made known his displeasure stomping on House's right thigh. House barely had time to scream before a hand clamped around his neck and hauled him bodily up.

His vision dimmed from the sudden drop in blood pressure, and House slid his eyes shut as he struggled to breathe. When the guard attempted to shake him back to consciousness however, House knew the battle was lost and collapsed heavily against the grip around his throat.

The next time House regained consciousness, he was naked and fevered, but he was thankfully alone. He rolled onto his back, and effort needed for the movement proved too gargantuan, and all he could do was lay there, a wretched figure gasping for air – only to find it was denied.

Panic propelled him, and a viscous pool of blood and saliva dribbled from his mouth, clearing his airway just enough for him to draw a wet rattling breath. Curling in on himself, he gingerly touched a hand to his throat, immediately regretting the decision after a tentative prod almost caused him to shoot through the ceiling.

Laryngeal trauma. Possible hyoid fracture or displaced cartilage. Definite vocal cord damage.

House squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath.

Alright. He could do breathing. So far.

Pulling himself painfully up to rest heavily on his calloused elbows, House dragged himself to the edge of the wall, and reclined against it, forming a makeshift elevation.

It hurt, but fuck it, so did everything else.

A cockroach scuttled by, and House clapped the dog bowl over it, then desperately fumbled underneath until his hand closed feebly around the morsel. Brining it to his mouth, he wondered if he'd wake up tomorrow.

He hoped he wouldn't.

* * *

House's body gave a wild jerk as the hospital monitors beeped loudly in his distress.

He groaned softly as his back spasmed at the sudden movement, the muscles cramping painfully as he went rigid. Grimacing, he slowly and painfully eased himself back on the bed, squeezed his eyes shut and fought another surge of panic.

House was exhausted, yet sleep eluded him.

The slightest whisper startled him awake, and the lightest brush sent him cowering in one corner of the bed. More than three people in the room and his surroundings seem too crowded, too much activity for his eyes to track, too many possible threats to defend against, and more often than not he'd lay trembling until fatigue or sedation claimed him.

House hated having to admit this, but when Wilson was around, everything seemed less terrifying. He loathed this dependence, his inability to control his mind and body, the pathetic urge to call out whenever he was left alone.

He jumped again as the room creaked loudly, resisting the urge to duck under the covers. Instead, House settled himself on the stack of cushions that supported him, gingerly curled onto his side and after a moment's hesitation, closed his eyes and covered his ears with his palms as he steeled himself for a fitful night's rest.

He hoped morning came soon.

"Here we go."

Wilson bustled in, bearing a warm bowl of soup.

It was standard hospital fare, the broth diluted and already cooling, but House's eyes widened at the sight of the offering, and it was all he could do not to snatch the bowl right out of Wilson's hands and quickly gulp it down before it was taken away. Wilson must have caught his ravenous gaze anyway, and smiling softly, settled the bowl on the tray in front of House, pushing it toward him.

Pulling up a chair, Wilson noted the tension in House's shoulders and how his eyes tracked him throughout the room. Only when Wilson was seated did he look back toward his meal. Gritting his teeth, House tried lifting his arm. Pain lanced across his shoulder and he gasped, his hand falling limply back onto the sheets.

Then, from the corner of his eye he saw Wilson start forward as though to take the bowl, and House instinctively lurched forward to protectively throw both arms on either side of the bowl, almost spilling the contents.

House, still hunched over the tray, whipped around to face Wilson with his teeth bared, and snarled.

"NO!"

Wilson jerked back immediately with both palms in the air, alarmed by the ferocity of House's response. His voice dropping to a soothing register, he leaned forward slowly, as though approaching a wild beast.

"Okay. It's alright, House. Calm down. I'm not taking it away."

Wilson took in his friend's panting, shuddering form that was barely holding itself up, and flicked a worried glance at the monitors that displayed House's racing heart rate and elevated blood pressure.

"House. Hey."

Shaking with pain and adrenaline, House blinked forcefully as he struggled to focus. Wilson hung back, knowing from experience when House was this agitated, physical contact only served to spook him further. Gradually, the quaking subsided and House seemed to collapse in on himself, curling closer to the bowl.

Wilson felt a strange yet familiar tightening of his chest at House's next sentence.

"It's _mine_."

Those two words were softly spoken, with no trace of his former aggression. Instead, his friend sounded plaintive, pleading, like a child simply who could not understand what he'd done wrong.

"Yes it is. And I'm not going to let anyone take it."

There was a pregnant pause.

Then, "Okay."

Blinking back his own tears, Wilson gently grasped his friend's shoulder, bracing House's back with his other arm, and steered House to lie back on the mattress. Rearranging the pillows and raising the headrest so House was comfortably propped up, Wilson then swiftly tucked the blankets around him.

"Alright then."

Pulling the tray even closer to House, Wilson watched as his friend reached for the spoon...only to have his fingers close clumsily in thin air.

Growling in annoyance, House slapped his palm on the utensil's shaft, then curled his fingers in. But when he lifted his hand, the plastic spoon slipped through the gaps in the crooked joints and clattered noisily on the wooden surface.

Frustrated now, House tried again and again to pick up the instrument with his damaged fingers, only to send it spinning on the table – almost mockingly – or sliding just out of his reach, until a particularly violent push sent it skittering off the edge and onto the floor.

Pissed off at having been denied his meal again, House snapped and wrapped his hands around the bowl of chicken soup – now cold – and tried bringing the rim to his lips, but he was unable to lift the bowl more than a few centimetres from the tray.

"Dammit!"

He couldn't understand why his body was failing him now. Logically, House understood the steps needed for his recovery, his medical training automatically cataloguing every injury he'd attained from the beginning of this nightmare. But logic didn't seem to be very applicable to the past five years of his life.

Five years he'd stayed alive in that hellhole; he'd managed to wake each day, survive the next twenty hours, then get thrown back into his cell to grab a precious few hours of rest before the cycle started again. He stood after savage beatings; he walked after hanging by his wrists for hours under a scorching sun without water, and each time his body pulled through.

Apparently picking up a spoon was one obstacle too many.

He was openly sobbing before he realised it, tears that were coloured with embarrassment, fury and frustration. House could hear Wilson murmur, "I'll be right back" before he left the room, but for once he didn't give a damn whether the oncologist returned or not. In fact, House hoped he didn't. It was about time Wilson stopped wasting his effort on a lost cause. He wasn't going to magically become the diagnostician again, and he probably never will. Besides, he didn't go through hell only to have his best friend squander his life away playing nursemaid.

Yet when the door opened to reveal the familiar sight of the oncologist, House felt a disgusting wave of relief sweep through him. House kept his eyes stubbornly at the taunting, untouched bowl of soup, and refused to look up at Wilson.

Until a straw dropped into the pool of broth.

At House's questioning look, Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Unless you want me to feed you?" he glibly remarked, waving a new spoon for emphasis.

House scowled at the offending piece of cutlery before snorting with amusement. Leaning forward, he carefully pursed his lips around the plastic, and sipped slowly. When the forgotten taste of chicken broth reached his tongue, so ordinary and bland, so _clean_, House wanted to drink slowly, savouring and drawing out the experience and pleasure for as long as he could, until the next meal, but his traitorous body failed to obey once again, and slurped greedily at the straw until the bowl emptied.

His stomach now full and content, House sank into the pillows with a lengthy, eloquent sigh. He hummed contentedly and closed his eyes.

When it didn't look like House was about to upchuck his meagre meal, Wilson smiled softly in relief, feeling the load lift from his chest. Noticing the covers have become untucked again, he reached over to tug them over his snoozing companion, his hand accidentally grazing across House's flank. Surprisingly, House didn't start as he normally would. Initially attributing this lack of response to sleep, Wilson resumed his task and drew his hand back to find it smeared with blood.

Leaping noisily from his chair, Wilson shoved the covers aside and gently parted House's hospital gown, too alarmed to smooth House's feathers – for he had jerked awake and flinched violently at the clatter.

"House! You're bleeding! Dammit, why didn't you say anything? When did – dammit!"

A row of stitches on House's abdomen had ripped, the wound angry and inflamed, and blood was steadily oozing from the injury, trickling onto the gown and bed, glancing every few seconds at the blood pressure display. Lord knows how long House was bleeding, how long would he have been bleeding if Wilson hadn't caught it. In his malnourished state, House really couldn't afford any amount of blood loss, couldn't spare any iota of energy from his recovery to deal with this.

House was blindly attempting to shove Wilson's hands as far from him as possible, eyes rolling wildly in his distress.

"House! Hey, you've torn your stitches; we've got to fix this! Listen, hey. Do you feel dizzy?"

Just then, Dr Whitley and a nurse entered the room and Wilson started to update them of House's current condition. The nurse ripped open another sterile pack of gauze and placed it firmly over the wound, taking over from the oncologist while Whitley moved to clean and suture the cut. Wilson, feeling ridiculously helpless and guilt-ridden, stepped closer to House, who was panting heavily, and his eyes – Wilson noted with faint alarm – were unfocused and bright, and the pale pallor of his skin looked chalky under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"House, it's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

House squeezed his eyes shut, and said in a breathy whisper, "I'm sorry, Wilson. Didn't mean to."

Wilson's experience telling him that this frantic apology was House's conditioned response to pain after years of torture, Wilson shook his head stubbornly and wrapped House in a loose embrace.

"No, nononono, no. It's not your fault. You hear me, House?"

Wilson let House's head loll on his shoulder, tears and House's hair blocking his vision.

_Dammit Wilson, you stupid bastard._

"It was never your fault."

* * *

Cuddy's heels clacked loudly on the hospital floors as she made her morning rounds. Pausing briefly to bark at an intern who foolishly filed the wrong document in the wrong folder – honestly, _blue_, not green – she made her way toward the fourth floor elevators. She felt the familiar tension of her body as she neared Diagnostics.

The glass door now bore a different name, but she'd never been able to think of the room as anything but House's. Both the office and the conference room were unoccupied at the moment, the team solving a case late last night.

After House was imprisoned, her staff used to peer in at the room, speaking in hushed whispers. Chase got so irritated by the constant intrusion and accusatory glares he once snapped at a pair of nurses and pulled the blinds close for good.

Cuddy quickened her pace, blocking out the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm her everytime she passed, until something gave her pause. Through the glass window she could make out the outline of a shadowed figure in the room across the balcony.

Sighing softly, she made her way to Wilson's office.

The door was closed, the lights were off, but something compelled her toward the room. Knocking once, she let herself in, and found her employee slumped on the couch, head buried in his hands, shuddering every few intervals.

_Well, no mystery what it's about._

For weeks now, Cuddy watched as her oncologist crumple, his shirts becoming more wrinkled and the bags under his eyes growing progressively darker. The only time he'd been this bad was the week after House's arrest.

Unsure of what to say, she stood awkwardly next to the couch.

"How's he doing?"

Wilson sniffed.

"Well…he's eating, that's always good."

Cuddy frowned. Wilson only looked on the bright side in a negative situation, and if the negative situation involved House…

Choking back her fear, Cuddy seated herself next to Wilson.

"Wilson."

A long pause ensued before Wilson could compose a reply.

"He's…doing well. Under the circumstances. Back on real food, his breathing's improved, PT's helping with the pain."

_Well_ wouldn't explain Wilson's breakdown.

"Okaaay, so how're you doing?"

Wilson sniffed deeply and gave a small smile.

"I'm okay."

"Bullshit, James."

Surprised by her response, Wilson glanced briefly at her before dropping his head guiltily and pursing his lips.

"He tore his stitches last night. Bled all over the sheets, and I almost missed it."

As always when it comes to House, Cuddy felt her worry start to bubble up again.

"Is he okay?"

"They fixed it. He was sleeping when I left."

Dropping her forehead on her palms in relief, she turned to look at Wilson's slouched form.

"You're feeling guilty."

Wilson said nothing, and picked uncomfortably at his fingers.

"It's not your fault, you know."

Wilson brushed off her attempt at reassurance.

"He was bleeding! And I'm a-a…doctor, and I didn't do a damned thing!"

Wilson palmed his brow, and whispered, mortified, "I think I scared him."

Softly bumping her shoulder into his, Cuddy teased gently.

"If you were wearing that tie, I can see why."

Peering down at the piece of fabric – a black affair with giant daisies – Wilson snorted amusedly. In mock indignation, Wilson defended himself.

"Hey, this is a designer tie. Gladys liked it."

"Your assistant? Pfft."

They allowed themselves to bask in this light hearted glow, and it was a full minute before Cuddy grew serious again.

"Take tomorrow off. Don't see House."

Appalled, Wilson jumped up in incredulity at the suggestion.

Holding a hand out to stop him before he tore the room down in paternal outrage, Cuddy calmly continued.

"Wilson, have you even looked in the mirror? You're like the walking dead. Take tomorrow off, rest, and don't come back until you look like part of the living again."

"But - "

"Yes, I will attend to House. And yes, I will give you a full account."

Softening her features, she reached for Wilson's hand, even as he stood there dumbstruck, and tugged him back toward the couch. Cuddy made sure to hold his gaze.

"Don't forget Wilson, your name wasn't the only one on the list."


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay, here we go! Sorry for the wait.**

* * *

_House arched his body from the chair as he rode through another surge of electricity. Seconds later, he flopped back bonelessly, sweaty and clammy. His heart was hammering skittishly against his ribcage, his muscles tingly and quivering from the aftershocks, the urine wet and warm between his legs._

_Before he could regain the full use of his senses, another jolt ran through his body, setting fire to every one of his nerves as it coursed through his body from the wires on his testicles, fingers, and toes, and every part of his body clamped around his broken bones._

_His lip was bitten bloody - and he wasn't sure - but he may have yelled and pleaded for them to stop, his tongue thick and uncooperative. It wasn't until his vision started to dim that he was once again released, but the next few moments were mercifully left forgotten when his eyes rolled back as he seized._

* * *

Cuddy ran her fingers through her damp hair and shook the few raindrops out. Honestly, the day the heavens decided to throw a pool party was the day she forgot her umbrella. Huffing in annoyance, she made her way down the hospital corridors, a scowl plastered to her face, as thunderous as the weather outside.

However her frustration and anger instantly vanished the minute she reached room 384, and was replaced by doubt and trepidation. The last time she was here, she was forced to watch fearfully, _helplessly_ as the staff fought to stabilise the man on the other side of the door, after having dealt with the shock of seeing House again for the first time in five years.

Cuddy had been unable to shake the imagery out of her head, anything could set them off - her nightmares, whenever she passed a patient in her hospital - each flashback more terrifying than the last. Now that she was actually here again, she hoped Wilson's daily updates were as promising as they sounded.

The Dean of PPTH took a few minutes to compose herself – it wouldn't do House any good if she broke out sobbing the minute she walked in – and silently prayed that this encounter would go better than the last.

* * *

The minute she stepped into the room, she knew her prayers went unheeded.

House was seconds away – if he wasn't already – from an anxiety attack. He lay pressed against the bedrails on the side furthest from the window, his curled frame rigid and tense. His hands were clamped tightly around his ears and his eyes stubbornly squeezed shut. Leaning as close as she dared toward him, she spoke, her voice cracking.

"H-House…"

No response.

She cleared her throat, and tried again, more loudly.

"House."

Cuddy reached haltingly toward his quivering form – though Wilson had warned her about how House reacted to touches, she knew it was the only way to get his attention.

"House."

Her fingers fell onto his elbow.

The effect was instantaneous – the diagnostician recoiled violently, pressing himself further into the railings, and his eyes flew open, wide with terror and shock. Unfortunately, before House could recognise her, a flash of lightning streaked across the window, making her jump and him reeling in abject fear. A booming clap of thunder immediately followed it, and House let out a yelped cry and curled tighter about himself, forcefully shoving her hand away, the monitors shrieking his agitation.

"House! Shh! It's okay!"

Fighting to restrain her own anxiety amidst the confusion, Cuddy pulled the blinds shut against the lightning flashes, then toed her shoes off and knelt down in an attempt to appear less threatening.

She tried reaching for him again, this time letting her hand crawl slowly toward him on the bed sheets, hoping he'd feel the ripples of fabric and anticipate her touch. This time, she let her fingers ghost across his eyebrows, feeling his eyelids twitch under her thumb, he whimpered in distress, but fortunately – and worryingly – made no move of resistance.

It wasn't until she combed her fingers gently through his hair – finer and thinner than she remembered – that he dared venture a peep.

Seeing his eyes open, Cuddy smiled encouragingly, keeping her touch soothing and her body language lax.

She spotted movement in the corner of her eye – a nurse, responding to the alarms, had stuck her head round the door, sedation at the ready. Thankfully, House had his back facing the entrance with his palms still clamped heavily over his ears, and failed to notice the intrusion. Giving the nurse a pointed glance, Cuddy raised her hand as a silent gesture to 'wait'.

Returning her attention to her patient – who was still watching her warily and suspiciously with a glassy focus – Cuddy crooned softly to him, her other hand coming up to brush the stray streaks of tears.

House shuddered and closed his eyes, and leaned into her touch. Knowing he was finally back, Cuddy felt the tension drain out of her, and gave a genuine laugh of relief. She saw the nurse smile softly and leave, closing the door quietly behind her.

She saw that House was watching her intently, his bright blue eyes occasionally flickering toward the window. He stiffened and blindly clutched at her hand when the thunder rumbled again.

She gently caught his fingers, fragile and gnarled, and stroked his brow in a reassuring manner. The thunderstorm obviously sent House into hysterics. The unpredictable combination of disorienting light flashes, sudden loud noises, darkness and the cold set off many of his flashpoints, and Cuddy sincerely hoped she wouldn't set off any more today.

Yesterday, upon learning of her intent to visit, Wilson had practically read her an entire manual for House-care – what to do, what not to do, how to do it, how not to do it – she'd listened intently, then reassured him that yes, she too went to medical school.

Now, however, Cuddy wondered if she should not also have written the information down.

She moved to House's side, and carefully wrapped her arms around him.

"Come here."

Mildly surprised that House complied with no resistance, Cuddy could only cocoon him safely in her arms as he crumbled.

Throughout the dark period before his arrest, Cuddy and Wilson had desperately tried to rein House in; utterly convinced he was on another self-destructive rampages, worried it might escalate into something else altogether, and when Cameron was murdered, for a brief, fleeting guilty instant, Cuddy thought their fears were confirmed.

They were so absorbed with protecting everyone else – House included - from House, no one thought to protect House from everyone else.

* * *

House awoke, the delicate scent of jasmine and coconut filling his nostrils. The room was quiet, and he noticed a pair of arms - soft and smooth - encircled him, and his head was resting on someone's shoulder.

_Cuddy._

"Hey, you're up. How do you feel?"

House shifted to alleviate the pressure from his left leg.

"Pathetic."

Cuddy turned and gently eased him back to the comfort of the pillows, and he winced when his stiff muscles protested the movement.

Already House missed the warmth of her body.

"You're not pathetic, House."

"No, I'm just a middle-aged cripple who can't go anywhere without a wheelchair and who wets himself during a thunderstorm."

House scrubbed at his face forcefully, and cast a nervous, covert glance at the window.

Cuddy clicked her tongue and pulled his hand away from his facial scars.

"House. It's going to take some time to -"

Her companion laughed humourlessly – raspy and grating. Cuddy tried not to grimace.

"…Go back to before?"

House turned his head and stared at his feet, and pretended not to notice Cuddy staring at his hearing aid.

She reached for his hand.

"Maybe if you'd just talk to someone…"

House stiffened.

"I'm not seeing a shrink."

Wilson had tried approaching the subject before, and House had rejected the idea, and that was that. Wilson was too nervous to push further. House knew he needed some form of psychological intervention, but what for? Talking to strangers – with opinions – wasn't going to make him forget. All it'd accomplish was rob him of the final strands of dignity.

"Well how about someone you trust?"

House turned to her, his eyes guarded.

"Someone like you?"

A brief flicker of something - some emotion he couldn't decipher - blinked across her face. Like he had done so many years ago, Cuddy ducked her head, then leaned forward and met his challenge with her own.

"Someone you like."

Clearly uncomfortable, House blinked and shyly dropped his eyes.

"House…You don't have to do this alone."

He watched her thumb gently caress the gauze-covered back of his hand.

They both looked up – House jumped - when the door clicked open, and Geraldine Morrigan walked in. Noticing her entrance was ill timed – both of the room's occupants had sprung apart like guilty teenagers – she flashed a beaming smile.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Winking at Cuddy's blush and House's eye roll, the old nurse reached over and starting adjusting House's pillows. He waved her away.

"I'm fine."

Nurse Morrigan was obviously used to such a welcome, for she merely smiled indulgently and promptly handed him a cup of Ensure, wrapping his hands securely around the large handle before moving the straw to his lips.

"Sure you are. Drink up."

House glared at Cuddy, daring her to comment on his display of helplessness, but years of her experience as Dean and House-wrangler ensured she kept her face free from pity.

Morrigan stood sentient over him, ready to provide assistance and gave a satisfied nod when he drained its contents. She brushed away his annoyed grumble.

"Oh, don't give me that, you're still at least 45 pounds underweight. Okay, give me number."

House averted his eyes – Cuddy had gasped audibly at his weight – and reluctantly, almost fearfully, muttered a 'five'.

Cuddy shared a worried frown with the nurse that went unnoticed by their patient. A five was hardly comfortable, and by House's pain scale, most people would be writhing in agony by now. Cuddy wisely chose not to comment, and Morrigan noted it in his chart.

"I'll see what I can do."

Morrigan patted House's shoulder comfortingly and left soon after, leaving Cuddy alone with House. The tension from their previous conversation evaporated, leaving behind a thick, uncomfortable pause. Cuddy tried to lighten the mood.

"She seems nice."

"Don't let the old lady card fool you."

She chuckled politely, and almost missed House's whisper.

"How guilty is he?"

Cuddy blinked at the non sequitur.

"Who?"

"Wilson. He sent you."

"Wilson didn't send anyone, House. I wanted to see how you were doing. And I made him take the day off."

House gave a short, satisfied nod.

"Good for you. But you haven't answered my question."

"What makes you think he's guilty?"

It was a stupid question, and Cuddy was treated to a spectacular eye roll.

"I tore my stitches, he happened to be in the same room. _Ergo, _the rules of Wilson-land dictate it was his fault."

The sight of House, diagnosing his best friend with a forgotten snark after everything that happened, made Cuddy want to beam proudly like a delusional idiot, and she fought to keep the fondness out of her voice when she replied.

"Wilson thinks he scared you."

Cuddy caught his crestfallen look and the flash of fear and worry that flickered in House's eyes.

She knew of House's abandonment issues; his cynicism and rational outlook, coupled with emotional scars led him to believe 'nothing stays the same', and since Stacy, House had more defensive mechanisms than ever. He was convinced one day, he'd run his use, and everyone that mattered would get bored and discard him.

Of course that's not true, but Cuddy could see no way of convincing him about the merits of mankind, especially not after _this_.

"Wilson's -"

He dissolved into a coughing fit, and Cuddy moved to pour him a glass of water, while rubbing soothing circles across his scarred back. Wheezing, he took a few greedy gulps of air from the nasal cannula until he calmed enough to speak again.

"Wilson's an idiot."

"I know."

Cuddy stroked his arm.

"He'll be back, House."

* * *

**Would anyone be interested to be a Beta for this by any chance?**


	13. Chapter 13

**Sorry about the lull in updates again. School's driving me up the wall.**

**Still looking for a Beta (my grammar isn't spectacular, and I need someone to call me out on medical/legal errors).**

**Reviews would be very cool.**

* * *

House jerked awake when he heard the door open, then relaxed as Wilson's head emerged cautiously from the crack.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

House shook his head, dismissing the apology. His eyes tracked Wilson's movements across the room, his body instantly defensive.

House tilted his chin toward the oncologist, shirt neatly pressed and hair combed and briefly wondered if Wilson had spent his day off laundering his clothes.

"You look better."

Wilson eyed his friend, sweaty and pale on the hospital bed with the alarming presence of the oxygen mask.

"Can't say the same for you."

"I'm fine."

"How'd the X-ray go? Leg okay?"

"Fine."

"The mask?"

"Pneumonia."

Wilson sighed heavily.

"You should have been better by now."

"I'm fine."

House blinked, and stared resolutely at his feet.

"I…spoke with Cuddy," Wilson ventured.

" - Of course"

"- And she tells me you're not eating enough."

"Tattletale."

House realised Wilson was throwing him "The Look". The one that makes cancer patients - and House - feel guilty enough to start taking care of themselves. House's gaze shied away.

"I'm fine."

"Geraldine told me you left half your lunch plate untouched this afternoon."

"Half full, half empty."

Wilson heaved a sigh.

"House, you need to get your weight up. The more you eat, the sooner we can get you out of here."

Wilson made sure to pause, long enough for House to grow curious. The oncologist smiled softly.

"Your hearing is scheduled for next month."

"…What?"

"The fourth. Should give you time to regain some of your strength."

The oncologist chuckled at the expression on his friend's face, wide eyed and baffled.

"We'll get you out of here soon."

House gave up trying to form words and sank deeper into the pillows. His eyes closed with relief.

He was not _hopeful_, he never was. Hope was for the other inmates, who knew they were getting food three times a day. It was for the guards, who hoped it was their turn with him when he was hauled out.

They usually got what they wanted, but hoping never actually helped House. It never brought food, water, and warmth. It never brought death.

So no, he was not feeling _hopeful_, that maybe, just maybe, that this was his opportunity for freedom.

He turned back to Wilson when the younger man spoke again.

"What?"

"Are you...okay?"

Wilson used a hand and circled his own face, then pointed at House.

Gingerly raising his fingers to his cheeks, House felt the wetness trickling around the oxygen mask. Damn.

"I'm fine."

Wilson granted him an eye roll.

"I know."

He fussed with House's blankets.

"You have to see someone."

"No I don't."

"House, you need help. You're barely holding it together. You have PTSD, panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares…"

"I'm FINE."

"I understand if you don't want to talk about what happened -"

"NOTHING happened."

Wilson bit his lip. He knew what House had been through; he saw the tapes, he and Cuddy both. The beatings, the experiments, the rapes…They replayed over and over in his nightmares.

"House, I can't lose you again. Not now."

House's eyes were blank in the prison footage.  
Dull and lifeless, they bored into Wilson's memory.

"I just…I don't want to see you…break. Please."

House stared into Wilson's open, honest plea.

"I'm fine."

Wilson let his shoulders slump as he stepped out of the hospital.

The oncologist had done his research; he had a whole list of recommended psychiatrists and other professionals who would be prepared to help House recuperate.

The younger man still had no idea how he was going to afford House's healthcare on his savings with his leave of absence, even with Cuddy's support, but he did know he needed House better, money or no money.

The physician rubbed the back of his neck and blinked tiredly.

It had taken no small amount of cajoling and nagging to get House to eat enough of his meal to satisfy and reassure Wilson. Meals were tiring, drawn-out daily obstacles; picking up the spoon still required a fair amount of painful effort, though the hospital had managed to procure cutlery with large, soft handles to make it easier. Still, House had grumbled his way through the meal, eating each spoonful slowly. His missing teeth made chewing tasking, and he occasionally needed to rest his arm. Since his stubborn pride won't let anyone help in his feeding, by the time he finished, House's energy was often so sapped he fell asleep immediately; one bizarre incident found House asleep mid-meal, the spoon still dangling out of his mouth.

The determined buzzing of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts, and he answered it absentmindedly, not bothering to look at the number.

"Wilson."

Wilson froze as he heard the caller's voice.

"James?

...It's Stacy."


End file.
